


The Disappearing Act

by TheMetalReaper



Series: The Ghost and the Guard [13]
Category: Five Nights at Freddy's
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-24
Updated: 2020-11-24
Packaged: 2021-03-10 04:20:14
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,466
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27697517
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheMetalReaper/pseuds/TheMetalReaper
Summary: William and Henry had their first real fight in a while, and, after giving William some time to cool off, Henry tries to patch things up. Instead, he finds something he wasn't expecting.
Relationships: Michael Afton & Charlotte "Charlie" Emily, Michael Afton & Henry Emily, William Afton | Dave Miller & Henry Emily
Series: The Ghost and the Guard [13]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1048337
Comments: 1
Kudos: 32





	The Disappearing Act

**Author's Note:**

> hey bitches! i'm back from the dead with a one-shot that i wrote *ages* ago but never posted. go wild! sorry about that, by the way. i've been writing way more original fiction, so let me know if you'd like to see that!

The stairs to the Afton Family’s home are an amalgamation of chipped paint and rotting wood. Henry grimaces as he climbs them, praying that they wouldn’t give out under his weight. Thankfully they don’t, and Henry approaches the door. He should really help William fix that. Well, once they were on speaking terms again.

He faces down the door, pushing in the rusted bronze doorbell. Complete silence is the only response. Someone had to be home, it was the weekend, and Henry had already checked Fazbears for William. He rang the doorbell again and again, until an irritated “ _ Jesus Christ! _ ” echoes through the house. Perfect, William’s already angry, and their conversation hadn’t even started yet.

Henry adjusts his coat, swallowing his nerves as the door creaks open. To his surprise, Henry is greeted by William’s son, Michael, who he hadn’t seen much of lately. 

Michael had gotten most of his features from his father. His strong eyes, which Michael had darkened with eyeliner, his umber hair, which Michael had dyed black, and strongest of all, his father’s height. Despite only being sixteen, Michael towered over Henry, his height aided by combat boots. 

“Michael, I need to speak to your father.” Henry says.

Mike doesn’t bother to conceal his annoyance as he stares Mr. Miller down, willing him away with his mind. “Didn’t you guys have a fight or something?”

“That’s…” How did  _ Michael _ find out about that? “That’s not important. Where is he?”

“He’s out right now.”

Henry doesn’t budge. “Well, when will he be back?”

“I dunno,” Mike grumbles, beginning to shut the door.

Annoyed, Henry pushes the door back open. “How long has he been gone?”

“I don’t  _ remember _ ,” Mike glares at the intruder, annoyed at the interruption and at all the questions. “Since Tuesday or so.”

“Tuesday?! Michael, it’s  _ Saturday _ . You’ve been alone the entire time?”

“So?” Crossing his arms, Mike plants his feet in the doorway. He doesn’t care  _ how _ nice Mr. Miller is, he’s not letting him inside.

Henry sighs. Of course Michael wouldn’t want to have someone watching over him, he hadn’t had a good parent since he was young. Michael was probably overjoyed at the lack of tyrants in the house. “Well, I’m not going to force you to stay with me. You’re nearly an adult and you know where my house is. Come over anytime you’d like, no matter how late it is.”

Before Mike can make a snarky retort, Henry disappears down the porch stairs. 

“Good riddance,” Mike laughs, slamming the door shut. He almost-runs back to the kitchen table, where various papers filled with pen doodles are spread out, in an act of rebellion against a man who wasn’t here. After slipping the headphones of his Walkman (which he had bought on his own, no thanks to his father) firmly over his pierced ears and starting up one of his favorite tracks, Mike resumes sketching designs for clothing he would never be able to make.

After an hour and a half, Mike needs a break. His head would fall off otherwise. He stretches up, twisting his neck from side to side in a vain attempt to relax those muscles. 

With a twirl, he gets out of his chair and prances over to the pantry, quietly singing along to his music. A quick scan of the pantry reveals nothing good. All the normal, good food was gone, Mike had eaten it in his first three days alone. The only thing in the pantry even vaguely edible were a few cans of corn, and he knew he would  _ vomit _ if he had to eat one of those. 

Eh, whatever. He could eat something later.

Exhaustion had found its home on Mike’s eyelids, and he decided to get some rest. He climbs into the little nest of blankets and pillows nestled into the corner of the couch that he had created on the first night he had been alone. Almost automatically, Mike clicks on the television, letting some random soap opera play in the background as he slowly drifts off to sleep.

⁂

Loud, frantic banging on the front door awakens Henry from his awkward slumber. He pulls himself off his kitchen table, remembering too late that he had fallen asleep with a bottle of beer in his hand. It topples to the floor, shattering into hundreds of green-tinted glass shards which spread across the cold tile floor. Henry groans, trying to step around the minefield of glass as he walks to the door and pulls it open.

Michael’s prior stern, tall stance (almost reminiscent of his father) has crumpled to an exhausted, distressed one, with his shoulders curled inwards, his head lowered, and his arms wrapped tightly across his chest, clutching a small duffle bag. Dark eyeliner streams down his face, carried by his tears. 

“Michael?” Henry says groggily, still only half-awake.

“I-I’m sorry,” Mike stammers out, still facing the floor, “do you think I could--?”

“Of course.” Ushering Michael inside, Henry manages a small smile that he can only hope is comforting.

Mike murmurs, “Thanks. Sorry I was an ass before.” He takes in the Miller’s kitchen, something that he hadn’t seen in years. The kitchen was in disarray, even more so than the Aftons, which had had a teenager running it for the past three days. Trash was on every surface, empty beer bottles and cans littered the floor, and a waterfall of paper dishes and plastic utensils cascaded out of the overflowing trash bin. There even appeared to be bits of glass on the floor, which hadn’t had a good scrubbing in ages. Mike knew he wasn’t the neatest person, but this level of dirt surprised him, especially coming from an adult. He was honestly surprised there weren’t rats.

With his focus on making sure that neither of their feet get impaled by the shards of glass strewn across the floor, Henry doesn’t register the apology. “Are you hungry? Thirsty? Do you need anything, anything at all?”

“No thanks, Mr. Miller. I just got kinda freaked out.”

Henry knew how easy it was to get freaked out in a house filled with murderous robots and traumatic memories, and squeezed Michael’s shoulder compassionately. Mike smiled back, grateful to have at least one person in his corner. 

They climbed up the stairs, which were only somewhat cleaner than the kitchen. Trash is  _ only _ sprinkled on every third or fourth step. Grimacing, Mike wills himself to stop thinking like that. Henry’s being nice to him, taking him in like this. 

There’s a hallway at the top of the stairs, with only a few doors in it. One leads to the bathroom, which Mike can only assume is as grimy as the kitchen. Another’s closed, probably Henry’s bedroom. The third is slightly ajar, and Henry pushes it open. Mike follows him into the room, and his mouth goes dry. 

Mike stands in Charlie’s bedroom, exactly the same as he always remembered it. Almost as immaculate as the rest of the house is dirty. It isn’t like Liz’s room, which was almost a coffin, and of course, off limits since she died. It’s warm and bright and  _ alive,  _ almost as if Charlie is going to walk in right that second, hug Mike so tight his ribs would crack, and assure him that everything was going to be okay.

“Charlie always liked you,” Henry says sadly, “I don’t think she would have minded you staying here for just one night.”

Mike tries to respond, but no words are coming to him. The fond memories, ones that he tried to cut off in pain, are flooding back to him now. Nights spent trying to stay awake as long as they could playing board games or on Charlie’s Atari, chatting the night away about anything and everything. Normally memories like this would make him cry, but Mike can’t help smiling. He was so lucky to have had Charlie in his life, even if it was only for a little while. 

“Well, uh, goodnight.” Henry shifts from foot to foot. 

Sitting on the end of the bed, Mike runs his fingers over the fuchsia floral fabric. “Goodnight, Mr. Miller. And thank you, again.”

“It’s no problem,” Henry walks to the door, but glances back, “It’s going to be okay, Michael. Tomorrow, we’ll go find your father.”

Mike held back the bile in his throat as he stifled the urge to shout that he’d  _ really _ rather not have his father found. Instead, he pulled the fleece sheets up to his chin, drifting off to sleep as the door creaked shut. 

And, just for a moment, he almost thought he could see a small figure out of the corner of his eye, sitting on the end of the end of the bed as Charlie always had done. 


End file.
